


A Small Measure of Peace

by rhoen



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Gentleness, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Blood, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 07:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13970196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhoen/pseuds/rhoen
Summary: Itachi visits Nagato in hospital and does what he can to make him feel a little better.





	A Small Measure of Peace

**Author's Note:**

> CW for Itachi coughing some blood up.
> 
> Some more NagaIta. I wrote this two weeks ago (and it was actually my first fic for this pairing). I hope you like!

Itachi is used to loss. He’s used to pain and anguish, and the bitterness every breath can bring to his labouring lungs, the sickness suffusing through his veins. He’s used to darkness, long hours of waiting with not even a glimmer of hope in the midnight black sky. He’s come to terms with his own mortality, with the fact that, one day soon, he’ll return to dust. He’s used to loss, and to watching the years, the months, the days, the hours, the minutes falling away from his life. He can feel them shedding with every step he takes, final darkness drawing nearer.

He’s used to loss. He’s used to pain. But not like this.

He’s not used to loving. The thing within his breast that has nothing to do with physiological ill health hurts. It aches and bleeds both joy and misery into his soul, because the person he holds most dear is like him too: sick and fragile, and fading from this world. He fears that there are only a handful of moments he can have, that they can share, before one of them is gone.

It’s almost a race to the grave. In the fleeting life they’ve been given they shouldn’t hesitate. They shouldn’t hold back, because every precious thing within their grasp will soon disappear.

And yet, Itachi hesitates. He hovers outside the door to the hospital room, his heart beating out a violent tattoo his body can barely contain. He’s not even sure if this feeling is mutual. He’s spent his time since meeting Nagato hoping, wondering… but never taking the plunge. He has to, though. It’s not as if, should it go wrong, he’ll have to live with the rejection for long. He doesn’t want to live the fleeting time he has left wondering… but nor does he want to darken Nagato’s time and taint the friendship they have and both need, because no one else around them truly understands what this slow, lonely demise is like to endure.

The moment he finds the strength to step through that door, Itachi’s countenance shifts. His entire focus settles on the pale figure resting in the crisp, clinical bed, and his inward anxiety becomes outward concern. He forgets his own distress at the sight of Nagato’s, and lowers his rucksack to the floor as he sinks into the solitary chair he has to drag closer to the bed - no one else has used it.

“Nagato,” he breathes, taking in the deep, drawn lines of his friend’s face. His body seems frailer than Itachi remembers, as if the weight of the blankets is too much and Nagato might be crushed by them, and Itachi reaches for his hand, careful of the line attached to his arm.

At the sound of his voice, Nagato opens his tired, glassy eyes, and smiles a thin, sickly smile. Itachi’s heart breaks, and he tries to pour strength and love into the touch.

“Hey,” he says, rather weakly.

“Hey,” Nagato rasps, fingers twitching against Itachi’s. “You didn’t have to come.”

Itachi shakes his head. “I wanted to.”

They lapse into silence, Nagato devoid of energy to do little more than breathe. And that’s okay. Itachi knows that his company is enough, the companionship counting for so much more than words can ever express. He knows what it’s like to lie there, helpless and alone and, at the very core of his being, frightened by his own body’s distress and the gulf yawning between himself and everyone he’s ever known and loved. He knows what it’s like to have someone reach out, in silence, understanding, and compassion, to hold his hand and let him know he’s not alone. He watches Nagato breathe, pale as the sheets he lies upon, his hair fanning out around him in a halo of dull amber, and he notices the way his eyes start to shift beneath paper-thin eyelids, betraying that he’s fallen asleep. Itachi doesn’t mind. Nagato deserves to rest. He deserves peace. 

He curses his own body when violent coughs to rack him, shattering the rhythmic silence and leaving him doubled over, pain searing through his chest and the tang of blood in his mouth. It’s not much, but oh how he hates the taste of his own mortality on his tongue, and he longs to spit it out. The best he can do where he is is reach for a tissue, trying to push the worst of it from his mouth so that he doesn’t have to swallow it.

He glances up when movement catches his eye, disappointed in himself. Nagato is watching him.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Nagato slowly lets go of his hand. “It’s okay.”

There’s a sink in the corner, and Itachi crosses to it, nursing his ribs, and rinses his mouth out. He balls the bloody tissue up and hides it in a paper towel, throwing it into the black bin, too jaded to care. He’s not infectious, it doesn’t really matter.

What he does care about is the smell of the soap: it’s the same standard clinical issue that’s in every hospital, outpatient department, doctor’s surgery and treatment facility he’s ever been in. As he moves back to Nagato’s side he gingerly reaches into his bag, pulling out the hand cream he always carries.

“Are you okay today?” Nagato asks.

“Better than last week,” Itachi reassures him. Last week he couldn’t draw breath without his lungs giving such violent protest he’d done further injury to an already cracked rib and tender muscles. He guesses he’ll be living with a cracked rib until he dies.

Nagato follows his movements, and his arm shifts against the covers as he tries to reach out. “Can you…?”

Rubbing the softly scented cream into his skin, Itachi understands what Nagato is asking for. Adjusting his chair half an inch, he reopens the tube he’d let fall to his lap. Nagato’s hands are beautiful, he thinks. They’re long and slender, even if a little on the bony side, and he takes Nagato’s hand in his with a little reverence, watching what he’s doing as he massages a generous amount of cream into the dry, suffering skin and over brittle nails.

When he glances up, he catches Nagato smiling. The expression is tired, worn from all Nagato has suffered and is suffering, but it’s still there. And Nagato’s gaze is on him, causing Itachi to flush with embarrassment at the way his heart skips a beat. He lets his hair hide his face, and bids his hands be still as he reaches for Nagato’s other hand when it’s offered.

“Help me sit up,” Nagato says when Itachi is almost done, shifting and expending what little energy he has trying to draw himself into a better position.

Itachi finds the controls and places them by Nagato’s hand as he stands up, leaning forward and ignoring the pain in his rib so that he can pull a pillow away and readjust the second. Nagato weighs next to nothing, and the frailty of the man he loves tears at Itachi’s heart. He wishes he could give Nagato more than just a few superficial comforting gestures, but he doesn’t have the power to give Nagato his life back. He’s no more capable of taking away all his pain and sickness and suffering than the next person is; all he can do is try to lessen its hold, and let Nagato know he isn’t alone.

“Thank you,” Nagato murmurs, smiling again as he profile of the bed changes enough to allow him to sit up. The tiredness seems to retreat, life returning to his eyes as he seeks out Itachi’s gaze. He then grimaces and gives a soft laugh. “I feel revolting.”

Itachi’s heart flutters at that look, admiration for Nagato’s grace and resilience in the face of everything hitting him squarely in the chest. “I’d give you a six out of ten,” Itachi reassures him, his focus shifting to Nagato’s hair. “Did the nurse not help you this morning?”

A shake of his head, and Nagato sighs, letting his inconsequential weight sink against the pillow. “Do you want to watch something with me?”

Itachi doesn’t really want to watch anything. TV shows and movies hold little interest for him, except for a precious few he’s seen a hundred times already, but it will provide background noise, and an excuse to sit together in silence for hours, should they need it. “Sure,” he agrees. It falls to him to fetch the control from the bedside table, and he sees the hair brush resting there too. “I could brush your hair for you.”

There’s a pause before Nagato answers, and for a moment Itachi thinks his offer is going to be declined. After all, he wouldn’t let just anyone do that for him if their positions were reversed.

And then: “Yes, thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, movie first,” Itachi decides, holding that precious degree of trust close to his heart as he turns towards the screen. “What do you want to watch?”

“You decide.”

The first film that appears on the menu is a recent release: part two of a trilogy. Itachi skips past it. He scrolls until he finds The Fifth Element, and then leaves the control in Nagato’s hand, reaching for the hairbrush and standing close to the bed to make the task easier.

Nagato’s hair is long. It’s not quite as long as Itachi’s, and hasn’t grown much in the time they’ve known each other, but it’s still beautiful. Itachi has never known anyone with such a vivid shade of red, and even though it’s dulled and brittled by malnutrition, he finds it captivating to watch the way the the strands shift and flow all the same. In this light it’s not as vibrant as it can be, but under the sunlight...

“Go ahead,” Nagato encourages, noticing Itachi’s introspection and perhaps mistaking it for hesitation. Itachi is careful as he reaches out, moving knotted hair past the feeding tube tucked behind Natago’s ear and stroking it into place, as flat as possible, against Nagato’s prominent shoulder. The ends are a little uneven, perhaps needing a trim.

Realising he’s biting his lip, Itachi lets go of the action with an inaudible sigh, and starts to tease the knots out, starting at the bottom. Nagato’s face is turned towards the television, but he leans ever so slightly towards Itachi. Free to do so without being watched, Itachi takes in Nagato’s pale skin, the prominence of his cheek bone, the fine layer of nerves and capillaries threading beneath his skin, and he wishes he could lean in and kiss him. He knows Nagato looks unwell – he looks weak and sickly – but Itachi sees something more than that. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something beneath Nagato’s skin and bones, something rooted deeper than the wasting sickness, and he finds that thing more beautiful than he knows how to describe. With just a look it shines through, and with the slightest upturn of his lips Nagato fills his heart with warmth and light, making Itachi fall in love with life again. What little time he has left he wants to spend with this man, offering him all he has left to give.

He has to move aside when a nurse enters the room. He stands back as she makes the routine observations, fingers playing over the bristles of the hairbrush as he drifts from the room to give them privacy. The dull cream walls of the corridor are the same as they’ve always been, interspersed with bold, intrusively informative posters, yet Itachi stares at them intently anyway, as if the answer might appear on them. The answer to what, exactly, he’s not sure.

His waiting is interrupted by his own frailty, a cough rising in his chest and refusing to be stifled. He clutches one hand to his chest, the other rising to cover his mouth, as he makes his way towards the nearest bathroom. It’s a good day. There’s next to no blood this time; the worst thing about it is the pain in his damage rib.

When he returns to Nagato’s room, the nurse is gone. Itachi, still clutching the hairbrush, gravitates back towards Nagato’s.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“—I heard. Are you okay?”

The concern is touching, and Itachi falters, and then nods. “I’m fine. Shall I…?”

Nagato seems to assess him for a moment, testing the truth in his answer, and then he smiles, looking back towards the TV. “Yes, thank you. Tie it up for me?”

Itachi fetches a spare hair tie from his bag, and finishes the job he started, letting the brush run through Nagato’s now untangled hair before braiding it and securing the ends. Nagato makes the effort to reach up to touch Itachi’s work, fingers skimming over the texture of the braid as he smiles again.

Itachi, setting the brush back down on the bedside cabinet, sinks to his seat, settling down to watch the rest of the movie. Nagato’s arm falls, his cold, boney hand reaching towards Itachi, who takes his hand again.

“Sit with me,” Nagato says.

Itachi looks up at him, confused for a moment. “I am.”

Nagato shakes his head. “No, I mean…” He means next to him, on the bed, so that they’re at the same level. Itachi understands that. “I mean next to me, so you’re not so far away.”

His hand slipping from Nagato’s, Itachi stands up and moves around to the other side of the bed, away from the IV line and feeding tube. Nagato does his best to shuffle over, making space, and Itachi doesn’t even care that the nurse will chastise them for this if she sees them.

He knows the movie off by heart; he could recite every line if he wanted to. But what he doesn’t know, and his heart aches to learn, is how it feels to have Nagato so close beside him, leaning against him. His breathing is shallow, becoming steadier and deeper as the minutes slip by, and his hand finds Itachi’s, closing around it as his head drops to Itachi’s shoulder. Itachi knows he should lower the profile of the bed and let Nagato rest, but he doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to change a thing about this moment. He wishes it could last forever.

“Thank you,” Nagato murmurs.

Having thought he was asleep, Itachi starts, almost dislodging Nagato from his shoulder. “What for?”

The TV becomes profoundly unimportant when Nagato pulls away just enough to turn to look at Itachi, his pale eyes a gentle, intimate reflection of his soul.

“You’re a good friend.”

Itachi swallows audibly, his throat constricting with an emotion he can’t name. He’s out of his depth, completely, but there’s no way back from the way Nagato is gazing at him. “So are you,” he answers, his voice tight.

Nagato smiles a little at that, his attention shifting away, back to the TV where Itachi knows Corbin is holding Leeloo in his arms. Nagato watches for a moment, the smile fading.

“I’d like to find something like that,” he says, before clarifying: “Love. I know there’s so little time left, but I still hope…”

And then he looks back to Itachi.

“Do you think I ever will?”

Itachi can’t breathe. He searches Nagato’s gaze, hoping and fearing, barely able to believe what he’s hearing. Nagato can’t be implying… And yet, his hand is still in Itachi’s, his frail body pressed closer than most people are comfortable with, and his soulful gaze searches Itachi’s for the answer, as if Itachi can give it.

“I…” Itachi manages, before his throat closes up completely. He loves Nagato; completely, entirely, soul-piercingly. Nagato already has what he’s looking for, and would know it, if only Itachi could find the strength to tell him.

His gaze flickering to Nagato’s lips, Itachi tries to swallow again. He can’t. All he can think of is leaning in, of feeling those parted, dry lips against his own and knowing the taste of Nagato’s kiss at least once before they die. He wants that so much, the ill-advised urge gripping him with such intensity he cannot pull away. His breath comes in short, shallow bursts, mingling with Nagato’s in the charged space between them, and he sees Nagato’s eyes lower to his lips for the briefest moments too, as if he’s hoping, waiting…

Tentative, trembling fingers slip between Nagato’s, Itachi lacing their fingers together in a clumsy, clear, unmistakable gesture of intimacy as he leans in, letting the distance between them falter, flicker, and finally die as he brings their lips together.

He expects rejection. He expects Nagato to stiffen and pull away, perhaps even finding the strength to shove Itachi from him. He doesn’t expect the hiccup of surprise, nor the steady, nasal sigh that follows as Nagato presses towards him, turning the fragile touch into an identifiable kiss.

It takes a moment for the shock to fade, amazement following hard on its heels, and Itachi brings his other hand up to caress Nagato’s cheek in an attempt to verify that this is really happening. A choked moan rises in his throat as the details register, and he pleads with every power in the known universe to let him keep this. He knows neither of them can have back the years of their life their diseases have eaten away, but he can hope for something that will make the precious few months they have left of their brief, unhappy lives worth every moment. All he wants is to find a small measure peace and happiness with Nagato, and for Nagato to find the same with him. Rough, dry lips against his own, boney fingers tightening their grip, the stale scent of sickness on his tongue, and he knows heaven.

They’re both breathless when they pull apart, Nagato more so than Itachi. He gives a weak murmur of distress before sinking into the pillow, still facing Itachi. His hand moving past the feeding tube and stroking Nagato’s hair, Itachi waits until Nagato has the strength to open his eyes again and look at him.

“You have me,” he promises.

Nagato, despite how difficult the action is for him, lifts his hand to mirror Itachi’s touch, fingers brushing against Itachi’s cheek for the briefest of moments before his hand falls to their thighs.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”


End file.
